criticism - A New Poetics

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criticism - A New Poetics

Boy at the Window, by Richard Wilbur

February 24th 2009 01:24

Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a God-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.

This is just an overall good poem. It has good structure, and its rhyme scheme informs and energizes the poem, rather than enervating it, as is the case with "Hallmark" poetry, which many self-proclaimed 'free-verse' poets blanket-label any rhyming verse.

Also, there aren't many adjectives or adverbs; what few are present help inform the poem instead of weigh it down with heavy loads of unnecessary letters. It flows right along with a narrative, verby feel, which is a classic mark of world-renowned poetry.

As for any deeper meanings in this poem, I'm cut off from that knowledge. Maybe I'm just too tired and frazzled from a long day of classes, but I can't coherently piece any thoughts together about what this poem might mean. If anyone has any ideas, feel free to share them!

Have a good night, everyone!

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, criticism

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A Miracle for Breakfast, by Elizabeth Bishop

February 16th 2009 21:11

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

This is a sestina, though a loosely metered one. It follows all the conventions of traditional sestinas except for the iambic pentameter, but the deviation from that norm worked well for this poem. It's a sort of narrative poem, which I think the sestina is best for--a narrative with a surface meaning and many other possible layers of meaning.

I felt, with my Christian leanings in everything, that the crumb and coffee could be symbolic of the Eucharist, the Lord's Supper. From that understanding, I make sense of the rest of the poem in a religious sort of way. I'm sure other people have other interpretations of the poem from which they make their own sense of the poem, and all those are valid, too.

As far as the Eucharist goes, to me it seems the poem has a sort of sarcastic or negative view of Christianity or perhaps just the notion of Eucharist. The miracle of the Eucharist, for Christians in general, is that it represents (or in some beliefs, concretizes) the presence of Christ in the event. It feels to me that the ending of the poem represents what many people feel is the futility of religion, or a turning away from it. I don't know a lot about Bishop's religious life other than that eventually she did convert, but that she wrote poetry in both eras of her life. I'm inclined to think that this was a poem from the nonreligious era.

One other thing I like about this poem is her fresh and vivid imagery. "One foot of the sun / steadied itself on a long ripple in the river" is a great, idiosyncratic way of saying "the sun was coming up." It's really hard to be fresh and original in poetry or any other kind of writing, especially concerning description. But here she said what was happening--the sun was rising--but said it in a way that was not only fresh and original, but also tied in with the poem quite well. It's really tough to make description do that: both be interesting and vivid and also energize and inform your writing.

One thing about sestinas is that you have to have your own way of writing them. Some people are able to just take 6 random words--with one of which each line of the poem ends--and construct a good poem around them. Other people, like me, have to put a great deal of thought into those 6 words, since they are the hinge upon which the rest of the poem turns. And some people have to write the tornada--the 3-line stanza containing 2 of the 6 keywords in each line--first. I think it's better to write the first stanza first, and then work from there, not thinking prior about what words to use or whatever; just write a 6-line stanza/poem, and go from there. I don't think it's smart to write the tornada first, because it's supposed to be the end of the poem and therefore informed by what came before it. The tornada is not a poem in itself, but rather it's the capstone of the poetic archway that is the sestina. Think of it as the heroic couplet that ends a sonnet: the sonnet isn't a sonnet without it, and that couplet can't stand on it's own, because it wouldn't make any sense.

I'm still plugging away at my rhymed double-sestina, which I'll share here as soon as it's done and presentable. Still no word on the poems I submitted for publication, but they take forever to respond, so patience is key. Have a good day everyone!

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, sestina, criticism

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Blackberry-Picking, by Seamus Heaney

February 12th 2009 00:38

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

I love Seamus Heaney's poetry because he always draws from real experiences from his own life. An axiom of the writer's trade is "write about what you know." Clearly, Heaney knows a lot about life from his own experiences, and a lot about poetry, judging from his poems.

This poem shows his mastery of the poetic craft in that it is tightly, precisely constructed so that the form of the poem doesn't call attention to itself, instead enhancing the words themselves. Upon first reading, this poem might appear to be free verse, but it is actually highly structured and logical. It's not exactly iambic--there are lots of dibrachs and spondees and dactyls all over the place--yet each line flows well, almost all containing 10 syllables, give an extra one here and there. Also, although the end-rhymes aren't full, the couplets do rhyme partially; that is, at least one sound in the words are the same, usually the end-sounds: cache/bush, burned/peppered, for/hunger, etc. It's very subtle, but the form is there.

I also love this poem because of its tight phrasing--there are no breezy or pretentious words/phrases here--and the diction is very precise. "A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache" is one of my favorite lines. There are myriads of other words that could also mean "grey," and many synonyms for "glutting" and "cache." But these words produced the right tone for the poem. In the whole thing there aren't any huge words and barely any adverbs; it's all very active and alive.

The poem poignantly presents a childhood memory, a memory that many people as kids--including myself--can relate to in some way. And under the surface lurks a plethora of possible hidden meanings, which could be different for each reader, depending on their assumptions and experiences and thoughts that they bring to the reading. The whole thing could be one big metaphor for many other things. One deeper meaning for me is that sometimes our plans in life don't work out the way we want them to, or that, when we get there, we realize something was wrong with it all along. Abstract, I know, but I couldn't think of any other way to describe it.

I hope you all enjoy the poem. If anyone thinks of other meanings for the poem, feel free to share! Have a good night!

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, criticism

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Redemption by George Herbert

February 4th 2009 04:20

Having been tenant long to a rich lord,
Not thriving, I resolved to be bold,
And make a suit unto him, to afford

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, sonnet, criticism

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Shakespeare's Sonnet 73

February 2nd 2009 02:22

That time of year thou may'st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, sonnet, criticism

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Cinderella by Anne Sexton

January 29th 2009 20:03

You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: free verse, criticism

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Hope Is The Thing With Feathers--Emily Dickinson

January 28th 2009 01:06

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, criticism, writing poetry

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Spring Pools by Robert Frost

January 24th 2009 16:27

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, criticism

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost

January 18th 2009 21:01

Whose woods these are I think I know

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, sonnet, criticism, meter

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This gold is here to stay

January 12th 2009 15:24

"Nothing Gold Can Stay," by Robert Frost

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, criticism, meter

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Spenser's Sonnet 37

January 12th 2009 03:29

This is a very late edition of Sonnet Sunday: my apologies. I just got settled back in at school, and the obligatory and inevitable welcoming of friends delayed this post considerably. It's still Sunday on the U.S. east coast, so that has to count for something, right?...Right?

Sonnet 37 from Sir Edmund Spenser's "Amoretti

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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: formal poetry, sonnet, criticism

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